


Freedom of the Press

by complaining_is_cathartic



Series: Works that I say might become multi-chapter, but probably won't [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clint is an ass in this, He really is a nice person at heart, High School AU, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I'm Sorry, Joseph Rogers A+ parenting, M/M, One-Shot, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony and Rhodey's relationship is so pure don't even at me, and he gets a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 12:56:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/complaining_is_cathartic/pseuds/complaining_is_cathartic
Summary: Tony Stark, son of recently deceased Howard and Maria Stark, appeared inebriated at his own parents’ funeral. Onlookers were disgusted by the blatant lack of respect, and the future of Stark Industries seems shaky at best… More on page 15.In which Tony’s parents may be dead, but the press remains as shitty as ever.





	Freedom of the Press

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, guys. I am indeed alive and still writing fics for this series. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

_The video shakes as the person tries to point the camera towards the subject. The pouring rain certainly doesn’t help. Eventually, however, the camera stills and directly in the center stands Tony Stark, drunkenly staring down a gravestone. His father’s gravestone._

_“FUCK YOU, HOWARD!”_

_The teen’s scream cuts through the empty graveyard, his eyes are wide and wild, bloodshot and bare. His words are slurred._

_“You were a_ shit _person and an even_ shittier _father and I’m_ glad _that you’re dead!”_

_He lifts his right hand, enclosed around the recognizable shape of an alcoholic beverage. Just as it looks like he’s about to smash the bottle down, the video cuts off._

* * *

 

He wakes up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers.

Tony is used to getting drunk at parties, but last night, he was absolutely _wasted_. In his defense, Tony was alone with his thoughts, and nothing good ever happens when Tony Stark has no one to check him.

All his emotions were _swirling_ and _twisting_ around his head and Tony needed it all to _stop_. Howard couldn’t keep him from the liquor cabinet anymore.

Feeling angry? Drink. Feeling sad? Drink. Feeling grief? Drown that shit in vodka.

Who needs livers anyway?

He peels his cheek off a wooden desk. Howard’s, he realizes. Briefly, he wonders why he’s in Howard’s study and then, like a freight train, it comes barreling back to him.

 _They’re dead_. _Howard, Maria...Jarvis_. _Oh, God,_ Jarvis.

“Fuck. Fuuuuuuuck.” Winding his hands through his hair, Tony _tugs_. Something dark and ugly twists inside of him, growing bigger and bigger. It squirms inside his stomach and pushes against his lungs.

He clutches at his chest, forcing himself to gulp in air. In and out. In and out.

Looking around the room, all he can feel is _loneliness_. Darkness taints every corner of his dad’s study and a familiar, bitter hatred comes bubbling back up.

 _Why didn’t he talk to me? Why didn’t he look at me? Why didn’t he_ love _me_ ―

And then, Tony sees the empty liquor cabinet, feels the bottle in his hand, and thinks, _I’m just like him._

The crash of the bottle against the wall is less satisfying than he thought it would be. With the amount of times Howard had done it, you’d think it be much more fun.

 _I need to get out of here_.

Tony abruptly pushes out from the desk and stands up, his stomach and head reeling from the sudden movement. Ignoring his protesting body, he gets up, grabs his keys, and leaves that empty, empty house.

* * *

 

Whispers trail after him, nipping at his ankles and clawing at his skin.

_“Did you see the video? God, what a brat.”_

_“His parents just_ died _, you asshole!”_

_“Shhh! Jesus Christ, he can probably hear you!”_

Just keep moving. Ignore them. Ignore them. _Ignore them._

People keep avoiding him left and right. He tries to smile ( _Everything’s normal. I’m fine. Completely_ fine.), but no one will meet his eyes.

Why can’t they fucking play along?

A scowl twists at his lips, and that cold feeling creeps back up to the surface of his skin. His nails dig into soft palms, distracting him from the icy chill.

He finally reaches his locker, people still parted around him as if he were Moses in the Red Sea. Anger claws its way to the surface (so much easier to deal with then that gaping loneliness), and the tension in the air pulls his strings tighter and tighter and he’s _so close_ to snapping and―

Delicately, a hand brushes through his hair, soft as a breeze. Tony sags, strings cut.

There’s only one person who treats him with so much care.

“ _Rhodey_ ,” Tony breathes, pressing his face into a familiar, calloused hand. And then, he turns, meeting his honeybear’s gaze head-on.

Tony doesn’t know if it was the pressure finally getting to him, or if the realization of what happened was finally kicking in, or (most likely) if it was Rhodey’s comfortable presence and the feeling that finally ( _finally_ ) Tony was _home_ , but right then, in the middle of his school’s crowded hallway, Tony finally broke down.

And then _everybody_ was looking at him.

(But it was okay because Rhodey protected him. Rhodey would _always_ protect him.)  

* * *

 

“ _Guys_.” An overexcited Clint (suspicious) greets his friends.

Steve warily eyes the object Clint is waving in his hands, waiting for it to blow up into glitter or something.

Natasha, apparently having a similar thought, levels her best friend with one of her impressive glares. “This better not be a prank, Barton.”

“Relax, Nat.” Rolling his eyes, Clint holds out his hand, revealing his phone.

The group (Bruce especially) collectively breathes out a sigh of relief.

And then they see what’s on the phone: a news clip on YouTube.

Clint grins, something snide twisting the expression. He asks, “Did you see the video? God, what a brat.”

Steve sees Bucky tense, anger dancing in his best friend’s eyes as he hisses, “His parents just _died_ , you asshole!”

Panicked, Bruce interjects. “Shhh!” He jerks his thumb toward someone walking down the hall. “Jesus Christ, he can probably hear you!”

At this point, Steve hasn’t quite caught on yet, still confused as to who they are talking about. But then, he turns his head and, lo and behold, _Tony Stark_ walks past him down the hallway, and _finally_ , Steve’s eyes widen in realization.

Quickly (too quickly, he feels his neck pop), Steve turns back around to look at the video.

He sees it then, a picture of the funeral procession, a tipsy Tony Stark stumbling at the front. The title of the video stands out in all caps: “BILLIONAIRE’S BREAKDOWN.”

“Who cares?” Clint tosses out inconsiderately, a sneer in his voice. “He was probably faking it to get attention or whatever.”

Steve tunes out Clint’s barbs. He knows Clint doesn’t mean it, that he’s just angry at the world, angry at his poor living conditions (both literally and metaphorically). He thinks Tony’s just another rich crybaby, sad that Daddy can’t furnish the teen’s lavish lifestyle anymore.

But Clint didn’t see what Steve saw.

Because Steve was _there_.

It was raining because _of course_ it was. Like some over dramatic scene out of a movie. And Steve was standing in that cemetery, watching the funeral from a distance. When the burial was over, when the crowd cleared out, the only person remaining was Tony. Tony, a bottle of _something_ in his hands, anger in his tense gait, thunderclouds brewing in his molten chocolate eyes. There was more emotion contained in his wiry, teenage frame then there was in all of the other “mourners” (greedy business partners, vapid socialites, detached employees) combined.

Steve watched the teenager, so young and carrying the weight of the world, walk up to his father’s gravestone. And when those hateful words came out of Tony’s mouth, Steve saw _everything_. Those were not the eyes of a whiny, spoiled brat. They were the eyes of loneliness. Of betrayal. Of a scared little kid.

Steve remembers the exact words that came out of Tony’s mouth, rain dripping from the lonely boy’s brown hair, darkened from the rain. His clothes were soaked through. He looked so cold.

_“I HATE YOU!”_

Steve could hear the words clear as day, even from as far away as where he was standing.

_“Do you know how fucked up that is?”_

_“I hate you and you’re dead and do you see me, Howard? How messed up your son is? How messed up_ **you** _made me?”_

Tony was bent over as if his emotions were physically wearing him down. Steve felt a dark urge to draw the morose scene.

 _“Because you weren’t satisfied just fucking yourself up, were you? You had to fuck me up too just to make you feel good about yourself, and now you’ve fucked up mom and Jarvis. They’re_ **dead** _because of you!”_

_“Are you happy yet, Howard? Are you?!”_

And here came the words, those dreadful words taken out of context and forever recorded in that video.

_“FUCK YOU, HOWARD!”_

Steve could practically feel Tony’s vocal cords tearing.

 _“You were a_ shit _person and an even_ shittier _father and I’m_ glad _that you’re dead!”_

And when Tony raised that bottle, it was simply in mock salute to a dead, pathetic father.

* * *

 

It’s lunchtime, and Tony finally feels human again. Thank God for Rhodey.

He straightened out his clothes and took some Advil to soothe his headache. His eyes may be bloodshot, but at least he doesn’t look and feel like a zombie.

For a long time there, Tony was spiraling. Spiraling down down down into a myriad of negative thoughts and feelings that he didn’t know how to escape.

Why was he so _emotional_?

 _(“I’m s-so f-fucking_ pathetic _. Why can’t I be s-stronger?”_

 _“Tony, look at me._ This is not weakness. _”)_

Why was he so _helpless_?

_(“Fuck! If only I had been th-there. I c-could’ve…”_

_“Could’ve_ what _, Tony? Died along with them?”)_

Why was he so _stupid_?

_(“I n-never t-told them I loved them…”_

_“Tony…_ They know _. I promise you.”)_

Why was he so _needy_?

( _“...Don’t die. Please.”_

 _“...And leave you?_ Never. _”)_

Rhodey stood with him in that bathroom for what seemed like hours, tears and snot being smothered all over his shirt, and yet, Rhodey still stayed. His Rhodeybear. His best friend. In that moment, Tony’s love for his platypus expanded as big as the galaxy. It filled his chest and spilled out into the room. He thinks Rhodey could feel it too. He thinks that, maybe, the whole world could feel it.

And here Rhodey is once again, standing beside him like a sentry, staring down anyone who so much as glances in their direction. Tony can’t keep his eyes off Rhodey, a familiar love bubbling back to the surface.

When they sit down, Tony leans his head against his friend’s shoulder, a contented smile spreading across his lips.

 _Home is where the heart is_ , he muses.

And for those few aching moments, he’s happy.

But then.

“Look at him, he’s just acting normal. As if he doesn’t even care.”

Tony freezes, his blood runs cold because he _knows_ that the comment is directed towards him.

“ _Clint_ ,” someone hisses, “Knock it off.”

“Oh come _on_ , you guys! Did you even watch the video? ‘I’m glad you’re dead!’ Seriously? He’s so fucking _ungrateful_!”

Rhodey tenses as Tony lifts his head from his honeybear’s shoulders.

Then he sees them, sitting a couple of tables away from him. Clint Barton and his friends. The blonde is looking straight at Tony as he spews out ridicule after ridicule.

Rogers tries to catch his eyes, mouthing “I’m so sorry,” but Tony isn’t paying attention anymore, because his mind is stuck on repeat, replaying that last sentence over and _over_ again.

_Did you even watch the video?_

_Did you even watch the video?_

_Did_

_You_

_Even_

_Watch_

_The_

**Video**?

“Rhodey,” his voice comes out as a whisper. “What video?”

He looks over to the other and sees an angry expression on his friend’s face.

“Tony, please… don’t make me show it to you.”

Panic rapidly replaces his happiness, eating away at it.

“Rhodey. What. Video.” His voice is tight, he feels like he might have a panic attack.

And then, he hears it.

It’s his voice, screaming at his father. Tony whips his head around, trying to locate the source, eyes landing on an unsuspecting teen, watching their phone.

Dashing up to the guy’s table, Tony snatches the phone out of his hands.

“Dude, what the fuck―” The kid pales when he notices who he was talking to.

Tony replays the video from the beginning.

_On December 16th, famous weapons manufacturer Howard Stark and his wife, Maria Stark, died in an unfortunate car crash. Spectators believe that Stark, who was driving the car, lost control as he skidded over an ice patch._

They didn’t mention Jarvis. They didn’t mention that Howard was piss drunk. Tony’s blood boils.

_The world is mourning for the loss of such a brilliant man… except for, surprisingly, his own son._

_Last night, a mysterious uploader posted a video on YouTube showing the teenager, drunk, shouting at his father’s grave… Check it out:_

Tony nearly laughs out loud. _Of course_ they skip over Howard’s drunkenness in favor of his own. Fucking news.

The laughter dies as soon as the video starts, and his heart begins hammering in his chest. He feels Rhodey place a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

_How did someone get that video? Why would they post it online?_

_Fuck. Why_ wouldn’t _they post it online_?

This time, he doesn’t hold back his laughter. It bursts out of his mouth, disbelief tainting it.

“Oh my _god_. Fucking _of course_ there’s a goddamn _video_!”

His voice rises in hysterics.

“You people just can’t mind your _own fucking business_ , can you?”

Rhodey places himself in his line of sight. Delicately, the other teen grabs the phone out of Tony’s hand.  

“Tony…just ignore it―”

He ignores Rhodey instead. The whole room is looking at him.

“FUCK! I’m not even safe at my own fucking _parents’_ funeral! _Get out of my life_! Get out of my fucking life!”

And then Tony’s running. Running away from all those eyes, staring at him. Scrutinizing him. Analyzing his worth.

 _Fuck them_.

* * *

 

Steve is _seething_.

He glares at Clint. This time, he doesn’t excuse his friend’s actions, doesn’t try to justify them with the knowledge of Clint’s home life.

It’s not about what life gives you. It’s about how you react to it.

Clint has the decency to look a little sheepish. Nat, Bruce, Bucky, and he all stare down the loudmouth.

“Clint,” Steve says, voice tight. “You crossed a fucking line.”

No one makes a jibe about Steve’s word choice. This is serious.

Clint looks away, mutters, “...I know.”

Steve gets up and follows Tony.

* * *

 

Tony is sitting behind the school.

No one comes here because it’s so disgusting. Empty beer bottles and discarded cigarettes litter the ground. He thinks he saw a condom somewhere. Plus, it’s cold as fuck right now so no one wants to be away from the warmth of the inside.

No one really knows about this spot except him, though he suspects Rhodey might have caught on to where he disappears. So, when he feels a presence approaching him, he thinks it’s his honeybear.

It’s not.

“Tony.”

Said teen bitterly laughs.

“Come here to mock me some more, Rogers?”

“Steve.”

Tony startles. “...What?”

“Call me Steve, please.”

Tony just nods, bemused and cautious.

 Rogers… Steve comes closer, asks if he can sit. Tony shrugs.

“It’s your pants on the line.”

Steve smiles softly, pleased that Tony feels comfortable enough to joke… or maybe it was because he was so uncomfortable. He’s a lot like Clint in that aspect.

Steve huffs.

If only those two really knew each other...they would get along like a house on fire.

The two teenagers sit there for a while, suffocating in the silence. Tony feels his anxiety clump together in his chest. He’s about to spiral again when―

“I saw you,” Steve blurts out lamely. “Uhh. In the cemetery…”  

Tony snorts. “News flash, _Steve_ , everyone saw me.”

“No, I, uh, I was there. At the cemetery.”

He sees Tony freeze, and then the coldest glare he’s ever seen is leveled straight at him.

“Was it you?” Tony’s fists clench and unclench.

Oh. Oh my God.

“No!” Steve is waving his hands in the air, panicked. “No, no, no. Tony, I _promise_ you I would _never_ do that. I just―”

Steve feels so stupid. He should’ve realized how _bad_ that would sound.

“I was, uh. I was visiting someone, and well. There you were.”

That awful look of betrayal slowly slides off of Tony’s face, _thank God_. But still, the teen’s hard exterior remains.

“So,” Tony drawls, voice acidic. “You got to see the show up-close, huh? Must’ve been quite the sight. Tony Stark, whining like a pathetic little baby―”

“No!” Steve nearly _growls_ , but then he sees the shocked look at Tony’s face and tries to tone it down.  

“That’s not.” He stops, breathing harshly through his nose. “This is not how I wanted this conversation to go.”

Tony doesn’t say anything, just grinds his teeth together, digs his nails into his palms, trying to ground himself.

Steve softens. “Tony, I _saw_ you. You weren’t pathetic. You were… God I know this sounds weird but, you were so, so _beautiful._ You were passionate and real, and I could _see_ you, Tony…and I…”

He looks at Tony’s defensive posture, curled into himself, and he realizes that he’s not really getting through to the other teen. Steve sighs and adjusts his angle, switches tactics.

“I know it isn’t the same,” Steve starts anew, “but my dad… he left my mom when I was young. I don’t even remember what he looked like.” Steve sighs, breath puffing out into the air as a small little cloud. “I didn’t really understand it as a kid, you know? I never understood why he wasn’t around, why mom wouldn’t tell me where he was. I remember looking at other kid’s families and wondering why they got to be happy, why they got to have a dad.”

Tony sees the way his face twists in discomfort, the agitated way he drags his fingers through his blond hair.

“Steve, you really don’t―”

“Please, Tony.” Pained, earnest blue eyes engulf him. “Just let me talk.”

Tony quietens. Steve sucks in a breath.

“And then one day we got an invitation.”

Tony tenses; he knows where this is going.

“An invitation to his funeral.”

“Oh.”

 _Oh._ It clicks in Tony’s mind.

“In the cemetery…you were visiting your old man?”

Steve huffs, sad and amused. “Yeah.” There’s a long pause. Tony can see tears collecting in those blue, blue eyes.

 _Even the strong can be weak_ , the brunet thinks. Then he corrects himself. _No, that is not weakness._

Finally, Steve continues. “It was the first time I had seen my dad’s name. Joseph Rogers. It was so normal, so bland. Not the grand, bigger-than-life image I had been expecting.”

Tony watches the teardrop rolling down Steve’s face.

“Mom cried that night, and I hated him, then. My father. I hated him for leaving my mom. I hated him for leaving me. I hated him for never visiting, for never sending a gift, a letter, _something_. But, most importantly, I hated that I never got the chance to _really_ know him. And now here I am, left wondering what he was like. If maybe, just maybe, he would’ve liked me.

“I also…” Steve sucks in a breath, knowing that his next sentence is going to hit the hardest. “I also hated myself a little, you know? I wondered if there was something wrong with me. If maybe dad left because I wasn’t _right_. And then I hated myself for hating _him_. Because it just wasn’t natural. I should’ve _loved_ him, so what was _wrong_ with me?”

Steve stops and looks at Tony, really _looks_. “Do you know that feeling?”

Wide-eyed, Tony just stares at Steve. At this complete _stranger_ pouring his heart out to Tony, as if Tony is _worth_ the comfort. “I...” Oh _god_ , there’s a burning at his eyes. His vision is getting blurry. “I―”

He chokes, and Steve is pulling his head down to broad shoulders.

For the second time that day, Tony Stark is _crying_.

(But this time there are no eyes on him. Just a warm comfort embracing his body. And in that moment, in Steve’s arms, Tony finds another home.)

**Author's Note:**

> Did I really just end the story there? Yep. Do I regret it? Nope. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
